


You are okay.

by bokhootou



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Anxiety, Character Study, Comfort, Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, Fluff, Light Angst, M/M, POV Second Person, Please read notes, Sakusa Kiyoomi-centric
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-20
Updated: 2020-07-20
Packaged: 2021-03-04 21:06:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,760
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25402810
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bokhootou/pseuds/bokhootou
Summary: Your name is Sakusa Kiyoomi. You are not okay.or,In which Atsumu exists and Kiyoomi loves him so much.
Relationships: Miya Atsumu & Sakusa Kiyoomi, Miya Atsumu/Sakusa Kiyoomi
Comments: 2
Kudos: 128





	You are okay.

**Author's Note:**

> -PAUSE-  
> 1\. Descriptive anxiety  
> 2\. Mentions of insects, reptiles and rats.  
> 3\. Not beta-read because it felt too private to share with one person, (but a public link for strangers is somehow okay)

You are not okay. 

There is a small yet persistent itch on the back of your neck. Well, maybe not an itch, but a _presence_. A feeling. A prick. An annoyance. It digs in your skin and makes sure you know it exists. You think it’s because of the repeated friction between the tag of your t-shirt and your skin, even though you know it can’t be. You remember cutting your tag off. You _always_ cut off tags, but this time it’s there. It’s not It _is._ Or at least a stub remains. There has to be one. Why else would you feel the itch? 

There is no tag, there is no stub.

You run your fingers over the fabric and you do it again and again and again only to feel nothing but when you try to sit back and relax, it’s There. Constant. You scratch this non-itch. You pick at your skin. You check your shirt again. You scratch and sink lower in your sofa, hoping you won't feel the Thing when it changes its place and – oh it's back. it's higher up now, on your nape where the back of your hair begins. 

Now, you are aware of your hair and it doesn't feel as soft as it should. You frown. You washed it today, you _definitely_ washed it today. You also washed it yesterday. And the day before that, and before that as well. You sigh. You know you shouldn't wash it this often but you can't _help_ it. Not when you sweat this often, not when it's so hot that you can barely move from under the fan. You know that the repeated washing makes your hair greasy and now you feel like there's a layer of grime all over you and you want to wash it again but that's the _reason_ it's so oily but you can't _not_ wash it and – 

You groan and look up at the ceiling. The buzzed ends of your hair prick your neck and you are reminded of the time your cousin pushed in a pile of hay at your grandparents' farm. You still haven't forgiven him. 

From a window across the room, the sun shines directly in your eyes; bright enough to sear into your retinas, bright enough to make you regret picking a higher floor to live on. When you moved in you thought the lack of noise was appealing but every time the living room turns into the insides of a pressure cooker you, in the least dramatic way possible, want to perish. 

(‘tsumu knows this but never brings up the housing choice against you. He is kind, though he'd never accept it) 

(You trust him)

The heat is stifling. Your curls stick to your forehead and you run your fingers through them to push them back but now your fingertips are grubby and there might be some dirt underneath your fingernails. You groan and twist to lay on your side and oh, the itch is back. You'd almost forgotten. It's more noticeable now when combined with the feeling of your hair, both slowly eating your skin the way a termite chews through wood. 

The fan above your head creates a disproportionate amount of noise compared to how little relief it provides and the wall clock's tick is too obnoxious for your liking. It’s too much. Too much _feeling_ , just like everything else around you. You think you’ve reached your limit of dealing with the heat. Beads of sweat run down your face and back, sticking your hair to your forehead and t-shirt to your skin and— oh, your t-shirt. 

A little too tight around your arms, a little too close to your armpits, a little too high on your neck, a little too thick for this weather, a little too much, too _much_ , _too much._ You want to breathe but you've swallowed too much air and it sits in your throat like a small ping pong ball, tightening your chest and closing up your throat. It reminds you of a recurring nightmare you had as a kid; one of a snake sliding up your throat, pushing your tongue down to make its way out of your mouth and curling around your neck till you stopped breathing.

You can't breathe now.

You’ve worn this t-shirt before and it has never been a problem. At least, not this big of a problem. You’ve never worn it in such heat; not without deciding to do so at least a day before. Not without a day of mental preparation for it. Too bad last night's rain threw you off your laundry schedule and now all your baggier t-shirts are either damp or still in the laundry bag. 

You had to pick this one out of compulsion, you're wearing it because you _have_ to not because you _want_ to. It isn't planned. This isn't what it's _supposed_ to be. You don't like it. 

( _Kiyoomi you can't not like your clothes. Didn't we try this on before buying? You said it was okay then, how can it change now? Why did you lie? You can't be this picky. All you do is waste your father's money. Have some shame and stop complaining )_

Your muscles feel tight, your heart is racing and you feel like you've got rats scuttling around in your stomach. The glare from the window hurts your eyes and the itch persists. You _know_ your skin is red with how you've been picking at it but you can’t bring yourself to stop. Every fibre of your shirt clings to your body and the sweat running down your chest makes you think of ants crawling all over fallen food. Your mouth is dry, your head feels heavy, your fingers are sticky and you scratch and pick and shield your eyes and scratch and pick and groan and move and scratch and pick and try to breathe and twist and pick and claw and bling away your tears and pick and scratch and pick and—

"Baby, you okay?"

A figure appears in front of the window temporarily shielding your eyes from the light outside. His hair is still damp from the shower and seems to glow against the bright light outside. Even from where you are, you can smell his excessive deodorant. 

(It comforts you a bit. Just a little bit)

You push yourself to sit up on the couch and watch him draw the curtains shut. The air in the room seems to turn into cool water and you're enveloped by an orange glow, sheltering you from the harsh afternoon outside. 

He makes his way to where you're seated, worry etched on his forehead despite the perpetually amused expression he tries to maintain. The scent of his body wash almost drowns out all your other senses and his hair still gleams but it’s moonlight in the dim room; a healthy contrast to everything that’s agitated you in the past few minutes. 

(You think he looks handsome. You do not tell him) 

You pull your knees up till your chest giving him space to sit down. He leans back into his couch, farther away from where he'd usually sit and scrolls through his phone. He's never pushed you to speak and doesn't this time either. His presence next to you has an astronomical volume, though.

 _I’m here_ , it says. _Tell me what you need_ , you hear. 

Everything is still _too much_ and you are still aware of it but somehow the bundle of sensations you’ve been feeling seem far away, almost like a fading dream. You try hard to let it fade away, to focus on him and his habit of chewing his lips and tapping his feet and messing up his hair beyond recovery by running his hands through them. You don't want to think about _it_ anymore.

(You forget that not thinking about something still means you're thinking about it)

"My t-shirt," you mumble finally, bunching it up on your stomach, "too much."

He looks up from his phone, almost surprised to have gotten an answer from you. _I wouldn't leave you without an answer_ , you want to say.

(You don't)

"Just take it off," he says and shrugs like it's the most obvious response. 

"What."

He gestures at your chest. "That. You don't have to wear it if you don't want to."

( _You don't have to do something you don't like, Omi-kun. Just tell me_.)

"Oh."

He gives you a tight smile, reclines to rest his head on the armrest and folds his legs to lean on the backrest before returning to his phone. 

You take off your shirt slowly, confused by why you've never done this before and pat it across your skin to soak up the sweat. You feel his eyes on you the entire time and a softer heat rushes up your cheeks and down your pale neck. You can't don't look up from your lap. When the bunched shirt reaches the back of your neck you sense soft dip on the cushion next to you. 

"What's this?" he asks, extending his fingers toward the back of your neck.

You freeze. He freezes.

"Can I?" he murmurs. You can only nod. 

His fingers are still cool from the shower when he presses them down on the spot where the tag had been digging into you. You sigh when he traces small circles and lean sideways towards him. A cool and steady arm curls around your waist and pulls you down to lay on the sofa. You feel him adjust right behind you, fingers ghosting over your neck, arm under and around your waist, and knees fitted behind your own like a missing puzzle piece. His touch is firm and close, yet far away as if from the other side of a veil. _I'm here if you want me to be_ , he means.

You want him.

You let yourself relax under his touch and snuggle deeper into the couch. The fan feels good on your bare skin and his lips feel soft on your shoulder. 

"What shall we order for lunch?" he asks after a minute, slotting his face in the crook of your neck and lighting up his phone screen right in front of your eyes.

(Unlike usual, it's brightness has been decreased. You nudge his stomach with your elbow anyways)

"Mmhm," you say.

( _Whatever you want_ , you mean)

"Ah, that _does_ sound tasty," he replies and fails to hide the obvious relief behind his laugh. 

You let yourself smile a bit.

You are okay. 

**Author's Note:**

> POV 2nd person is new for me but sort of fun.  
> comments and feedback are greatly appreciated!  
> Thanks for reading :)


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